


Of Tattered Wings

by venn47



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dark Magic, Dragonborn (Elder Scrolls), Elder Scrolls Lore, Inspired by Skyrim, Magic, Modded Skyrim, Post-Canon, Post-Oblivion Crisis, Skyrim References, Thu'um
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2018-10-27
Packaged: 2019-08-07 11:10:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16407362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venn47/pseuds/venn47
Summary: Twenty years after the Dragon Crisis in the Empire's northmost province, the Last Dragonborn's whereabouts are unknown, though accounts of his deeds - both great and otherwise, depending on who is telling the story - remain fresh in the minds of men. Where has the great Dovahkiin vanished to? What secret lore does he possess? Most importantly, what sort of man is he? These questions plague Alarik, a young Nord that arrives to Imperial City in search of his father.The fic takes place 20 years after the end of TES V: Dragonborn. It treats canon choices and actions available during the original game, taken by the Dragonborn in question. These will be revealed throughout. It also treats canon certain mods, which will be listed in the notes as they are mentioned. Magic will be theorised upon and featured heavily throughout the story.





	Of Tattered Wings

_The most famous hero of Skyrim is Tiber Septim, who conquered all of Tamriel and founded the Septim dynasty of emperors. He owes most of his success to not making pacts with questionable entities._

 

It was the smell. The capital was a great behemoth of a city, sprawling endlessly outwards from its core in Lake Rumare, at the heart of Cyrodiil. The city originally rose around the spire at its very centre, the White-Gold Tower, said to have been erected by the Aldmer in the Merethic Era, though has since abandoned the would-be confines the island provided. The shores of Lake Rumare were now host to countless buildings, houses, shacks and huts - this outer ring has come to house more populace than the inner rings and has been named the 'Outer Imperial City,' or 'Outer City' for short. It is clear that the Empired possessed an unquestionable mastery in the field of naming things. The populace tends to prefer simplicity, however, and thus have come to calling it 'the Sprawl.' 

There were no clear-cut districts in the Sprawl. All of it looked identical to the rest: an elaborate and visually unnerving tapestry of seemingly random shapes and sizes, of towers surrounded by shambling driftwood huts, of mud and cobblestone intertwined as the supposed road snaked in unappreciative patterns, of walls that seemed to end in the most unusual of places, sometimes the middle of the street. Thousands upon thousands of people called the Sprawl, with its twists and turns, home. Alerik found it maddening, even though he was simply passing through. Learning to get around this place seemed impossible. Or, if nothing else, an exercise in futility.

While the Sprawl had not left much of an impression, what he saw as he gained passage through the mastodontic outer wall flooded him with a strange sort of exhilaration, the kind you might experience before a fight, or upon catching sight of a particularly beautiful woman. The ancient stone all around him beckoned, promising adventure in the rush of the glorious wide streets and by the heat of great hearthfires. And he obeyed, and entered the first tavern he came upon. The sign outside had read _Luther Broad's Boarding House_ , though he had not read it. 

"Then the Dovahkiin rose onto his feet and looked over the battlefield," continued a human seated at a table at the far end of the room. It was neither small nor large, though that did seem to be the only  table. Two men occupied it, besides the human; a Dunmer and a Khajit, each of them apparently enthralled by the speaker's words. Stories were being told, and Alerik had heard this one many times before. The barkeep was absent, and there was but a single man at the end of counter, slumped over it in something of a drunken haze. If he was conscious, it was not obvious. Alerik settled some distance away from the man as the latter did smell of filth, and garbage. Indeed it seemed as if he had not washed himself in several weeks, or perhaps even months. The same was true for the furs and rags he wore. 

"And what he saw had not pleased him. The rolling valley below had been flooded by Altmeri soldiers! They came from all sides, battalion after battalion they descended upon the Legion, until they broke through. But before chaos could ensue, the Dragonborn's mighty thu'um cracked the air, and one of the flanking battalions was struck down into the ground!" The storyteller brought a palm down against the table, to accentuate the fact. This caused the others to flinch. "But more came! So he shouted again, and tore the very skies apart! Showers of lightning fell upon the battlefield, and thousands of elves perished! But _still_ they came, and would not relent. So the Dragonborn, determined not to yield and grant the elves passage into the West Weald reached into his magical satchel and drew forth a giant horned skull, such as might be found in some demon!" The unconscious drunk groaned out something incoherent. 

"What happened then!?" The Khajit demanded in his particular feline growl of an accent. 

"Shh, don't interrupt. This is the good part," the Dunmer added. 

The man merely offered a sagely nod before proceeding. "He held the skull high above his head, towards the skies, and spoke three terrible words. Finally, he threw the thing into the advancing lines of elven soldiers and watched as blizzards rose from the spot! Terrible winds of reaping cold, waves of unrelenting snow and shards of ice all melded into a single calamity that washed over the enemy, and from the heart of this storm rose a spectral figure." The storyteller raised his hands menacingly as he looked upon the gathered, even sparing Alerik a brief glance. "A giant of ice and snow! Nay, taller than a giant, as tall as one fourth of the White-Gold! The creature rampaged through the Altmeri ranks, who sought to destroy it with magic and steel. A day and a night the battle continued, until the fiend had taken over ten thousand elves and decided it was enough. The rest of the armies scattered and were hunted by the advancing Legion. This victory marked a turning-point in the war, and the beginning of the Dominion's fall." He leaned back into his chair as he finished, allowing the listeners to absorb the ending. He was good at this, Alerik concluded in comparison to his grandfather, who had also told him many stories.

"So what did the Dragonborn do for the day a night, while the creature went berserk?" The Khajit finally uttered. 

"Probably joined the fight himself," the Dunmer added. 

"He didn't say that, though, did he?" A furry claw casually indicated the storyteller. "All he said was that the spirit killed the elves. Didn't say anything about the Dragonborn."

"Well, he was there! What else would he be doing? Sitting around? Meditating? Waiting silently on a hill for a whole day?" The Dunmer finished his sentence with a drink, then continued. "What I wanna' know is his swords."

"What swords?" The Khajit asked.

"The Dragonborn's Swords. He had three, right? One for slaying dragons, one that was cursed, and one a demon blade that only the dead have ever seen." The gray-skinned elf raised fingers as he listed each of the swords, as serious about it as several tankards of mead could permit, seemingly quoting some other story. Alerik had not heard his one.

The innkeep finally returned from what Alerik guessed was the back room, perhaps storage, and greeted the young Nord with a smile worn weary only a little by age. "A new customer, that's strange. What'll it be, traveler?" 

"Mead would be fine," Alerik replied, already sorting out drakes on the counter. The barkeep was rather quick about it, and the mug sat on the counter before the storyteller could finally respond. "Three swords, yes. _First a blade of cursed steel, the second breaks a dragon's will, third a boneless limb that only dead eyes know._ It's from a song, I believe, just can't remember which. _"_

The three pondered this in the satisfied silence of their mugs before the storyteller broke out again. "As for what the Dragonborn's role in that battle was, he was occupied maintaining the summoning spell, obviously." 

"That makes sense," the Khajit quickly followed. 

"Yeah, alright. Spell." The Dunmer nodded and raised the mug again. 

"Makes sense!" The drunkard jerked awake and exclaimed with indignation, the tone of it sending shivers down Alerik's spine. "Makes se-" he started again only to recline backwards and drop off the stool. He met the ground with minimal grace and lay sprawled there for a while, swatting around in futile hopes of sitting up. Everyone burst into hearty laughter, bar the innkeep who only looked on with what could have been disappointment, if Alerik read the man's face correctly. 

"Where-- where is my," the filthy man continued, having managed to shuffle onto all fours by that point. "Where is my drink? Linus! LINUS!" He waved a hand towards the innkeep. "A drink, Linus, and one for my frie--" a gargle of liquid poured out of his mouth and formed a puddle of a sickly sort of brown on the floor, into which he promptly collapsed, not to move again any time soon.

"You've had enough, Eyn."

"This is strange, Linus," the Khajit started after a little while. "Why keep him around?" The furry humanoid looked up at the man now identified as Linus, the innkeep. 

"Seems hard to believe, but he saved my life more than once. A man does well to remember his debts." Linus was a solemn man of a certain silent strength Alarik normally attributed to veteran legionnaires. 

"It does not seem, Linus. It _is_ hard to believe. Very hard."  The Khajit nodded a few more times. 

The sun began to seek refuge beneath the horizon, and the three vacated the Boarding House in favour of other adventures. No one new came in. No one new ever came in, and Linus locked up as per his usual habits. Alarik remained by the bar for a little while after, then moved into the upstairs room he chose to rent for no more than five drakes a night - a ridiculous price for the capital. So time passed in the Boarding House's tap room without a hint of interruption. Linus retreated into his quarters in the back room while Alarik busied himself with a weighty tome in the narrow confines of his own chambers. Eyn remained soaking in his own digestive juices and what stale liquor his body had considered excessive at the time. Silence seeped in from all corners and weighed heavy in the Boarding House, banished only for a moment as the evening veil descended, only to return with fervour once the tap room was void of all life.  

* * *

The air was much clearer beyond the Sprawl, away from all the people and their filth. The trade was a risk, of course, as the wilds hosted their own share of discomfort. Beasts, bandits, creatures of horror and fiends of the dark were all common once the roads were left behind. So it was, then, that an arrow was drawn and knocked, ready to be set loose upon a lone wanderer of furs and rags and cracked leather, of long shaggy hair and beard that seemed not to have been washed for days even in what dim lighting a small torch supplied. 

"Stop! Keep your hands where I can see them." 

In the ruined courtyard of Fort Ash, among cracked stone older than most living things, an ambush was sprung. _What sort of idiot wanders the forests at night?_  Kemal was perplexed. They had kept to themselves after the last score, and no one had ever wandered in here before - not even during daylight! It was bad luck, it had to be. They'd now have to kill this fool. Probably bury him, too. The disposal was the worst part, really. It made the entire ordeal feel like a chore, like _work_. And he'd got into this business to _avoid_ work. Life was a pain in the ass.

"You are surrounded! My colleagues will now relieve you of your possessions. It would be smart of you not to try anything stupid." He was perched high above the courtyard, with a good view of all of the exterior. He was proud of this spot - it was excellent. Slowly did they seep out of the cracks and move onto the the man, his colleagues. Halfwits, the lot of them. That was good, though. The boss lady appreciated him more because of it. It meant advancement, and advancement meant a larger share. 

"Halt," a gravelly voice pierced the still evening air. He looked to a nearby balcony - the luxury of the chambers Fjola had selected, to find her standing there. She was old, scarred and graying, but there was still fire left in those eyes. After several long moments of stern contemplation, she declared: "Well that's a face I never thought I'd see again. Bring him to my quarters!" The two exchanged glares, and she eventually retreated inside. 

Kemal loosened the arrow. That was probably all the information he was getting. Why yes, let us allow into our midst strange barbarians that walk into our fort in the middle of the night. He sighed. 

* * *

 They sat on fur padding, the light and heat of the well-burning hearth washing over them. The bearded man stared blankly at the dancing flames while Fjola stared at him instead, as if trying to unravel some great mystery. They drank red wine, a bounty claimed during the last raid. 

"Do you even remember me?" She finally asked.

The man said nothing, instead having busied himself with selecting the position of optimal comfort atop the varied sheets of fur.

"We met... has to be over two decades ago. Back in Skyrim. Mistwatch." He finally turned to regard her, however briefly, though something in his eyes made her look away. 

"You had a husband. A small man, frail." A moist gleam slowly departed his skin and hair. Fjola's servants had been kind enough to draw a bath, as if to curry favour. Clean and shaven - well, less unshaven - the man did appear more as she had once known him, and less like a Bravil skooma fiend.

"Christer," she replied. "Spineless, but he had his charms once. Before I knew better. What became of him, do you know?"

"I looked into his soul after I left you in Mistwatch. He would have suffered much, and the end would not have been a joyous one. The mercy I extended him that day is a kindness few have known from me, back then." The man continued ponderously observing the flame, sane thought visibly making its return upon sobriety's wings.

"Should that touch me somehow? I may be too old for it." She drank from the bottle again.

"Indifference grows as time passes, even for those whose souls remain whole." He joined her, examining a darkened bottle upon uncorking it. 

"Is that what happened to you?" 

"Elaborate, Fjola the Old." This drew something of a smirk from her otherwise stoic demeanour.

"You do remember," she added.

"It is one of the curses I bear, I remember most things." He set the emptied bottle down and went about opening another. 

"When we met in Mistwatch, I saw a man of glory and power, delivered to this world by fate itself." Silence crept into the room again as she paused, as to consider her words. "Much has changed. I don't think I need to explain further."

"There must always be a reason, of course. An explanation, because things do not just happen. How confined the minds of men are." Spite grew in his tone, until he finally turned to look upon Fjola for the first time in the evening. Not in the way most people go about looking at things, for she knew in that instant that all the things she had ever looked upon, she had only ever scratched their surface. These old and tired eyes that looked upon her knew the true nature of things, and she felt, in some strange way, all of the tiniest elements that comprised her being be set on display. She wondered what it would be like, to see the world through those eyes.

"Could be that little has changed after all. I saw it outside, when you came here, just as I saw it back then. And I wonder now if it was a mistake to let you in here."

"You do not," the man replied flatly. "You knew what you were doing."

There was a somber smile from the woman's rugged features. "Perhaps you will indulge a dying woman's last wishes, then?"

He nodded once. "There are many tales of my deeds that speak of my pure nature, of kindness and mercy. Let it not be said that bards are liars."

"Three things, as the songs say." She arose into an upright position and called on all the bold seriousness remaining in her. "First, a story. It is rare that us mortals know the truth of things."

"I know many stories," he spoke in a voice he had not used in a long while, but one that came more easily with each moment that passed in these ancient chambers.

"Your story. What happened that it ended like this." Another bottle emptied and joined with the others.

"I shall deny myself humility in this instance, and say that such a story, if I was to do it justice, would take many days to compose and as many, if not more, to tell."

"The short version, then. You have accepted my bargain, foul demon!" She exclaimed with feigned indignation and a strange smirk. "This I shall not be denied," she said as if quoting some great work.

Silence sought to creep in once more, but was swiftly dismissed. "Very well." More time passed before the bearded man spoke again in a voice that carried through the air in perfect synchronism, as if part of the air itself.

"I am old now in many ways, and have done many things. Some great, others less so. Some heroic, others wretched. I have had many name and titles, more than I have ever wished to hold. I have been called Ysmir by the Greybeards, meaning 'Dragon of the North' in the old tongue. I conquered Windhelm and killed Ulfric Stormcloak, whom they called the Pretender. The mages of Winterhold called me Archmage, and the children of the night called me Lord. Among other things, I unearthed Shalidor's ancient writings and retrieved more magical lore from Apocrypha than is known by the living. I defeated the Dominion's armies at the Battle of the West Weald and ended the Second Great War. Most notably, I am known for my victory over Alduin the World-Eater in Soverngarde, though this was perhaps the first story about me that encountered disbelief, especially so outside of Skyrim. The dragons, who with good reason fear to speak my true name call me Dovahkiin, meaning _dragonborn_ or _born hunter of dragon kind_ in the Dovahzul, the dragon tongue. I will speak to you of all my notable adventures, but we must start with the day of my execution first."

 

 


End file.
